Double entendre
by I'm Nova
Summary: Sherlock snoops into John's email and discovers something utterly shocking. John sets him right. For Sherlock's challenge of this month. Once again blessedly betaed by my dear Chrwythyn.


_Disclaimer: obviously not owning a single thing. A.N. Silly, short little thing for this month's Sherlock Challenge. The prompt was 'sports'. I was planning something more elaborate, but then during preliminary research this silly pun bit me and refused to let go. It is better than anything else I could have come up with, honestly. And I know, I'm a damn tease, but this felt like the perfect ending._

Double entendre

John came back from work in a good mood. For once, there had been no hypochondriacs and nothing particularly unpleasant to deal with. Boring, yes, but almost… relaxing. And now, he was sure that Sherlock would make life interesting again. The sleuth kept him on his toes, just the way his blogger liked.

Finding his flatmate in the sitting room using his computer was nothing new. John kept changing the password, too, but it was just to pass messages at this point. Like Dotheshoppingforoncegit. Not that his friend ever would, but at least John got it out of his system. So, honestly, the sight didn't warrant even a raised eyebrow or tiny sigh at this point. Hell, it was expected. The blond would have worried if it didn't happen.

What never happened was the consulting detective looking at him, blushing deeply, slamming the computer closed after pressing a couple of keys and bolting for his room. John frowned. This did not follow the usual script – and was cause for worry. What had upset his friend? His flatmate had always been completely nonchalant about breaching John's privacy. So what warranted such a reaction?

Sherlock wasn't watching porn, was he? The mere thought made John blush too. Not because of the subject. It was the connection between it and the normally aloof consulting detective that was at once jarring and intriguing, and rewired the doctor's blood flow.

Hopefully the sleuth hadn't just closed his last tab, but cleared chronology, too, so he would never know. The curiosity would have eaten at him, but he wouldn't know anything his flatmate didn't want him to be private to. John opened his computer – of course he did – and checked chronology, because he wasn't strong enough to resist temptation. To his disappointment, despite nothing being erased, there were no incriminating links.

Apparently, the last website visited had been John's e-mail. It wasn't the first time that his friend amused himself by checking it, and he'd never reacted like a kid caught with his hand in the jam. Besides, there was nothing that should warrant what happened.

John was in between girlfriends, so there was no ridiculous attempt at being seductive, saucy, or – God forbid – poetic. It was mostly junk mail, as always, a couple of work mails and three from old friends. None from Sholto. If Sherlock had read and deduced what happened between them, the embarrassment and guilt might have been justified, but as it was, nothing at all explained the events.

Maybe Sherlock was upset not by the computer, but by John's presence? What had the madman done this time? The blond sighed and went to make tea. Hopefully the kitchen was still standing. To the blogger's growing unease, nothing jumped at him as wrong. There was the usual chaos, true, but nothing the sleuth might be expected to be yelled at for. So what was he up to? It was a mystery.

Once tea was ready, the blogger went to knock on his friend's door, announcing it. Hopefully it would drag the man out. He received a muffled, "And biscuits?" that made him smile.

"Yes, of course there are biscuits, Sherlock, come on!" he called back. John swore, sometimes it was like living with a genius seven years old.

The doctor retreated to the kitchen, and sure enough, the consulting detective followed in a moment. He wasn't blushing anymore – but the deep frown marring his features meant that things weren't fine, either. Oh well. Tea would see to that.

"Do you trust me, John?" the detective asked earnestly, stalling on the threshold.

That was odd. How could there be any doubt? The blond felt vaguely offended that such a thing could even be questioned. "With my life," he replied simply. Wasn't the sleuth supposed to hate stating the obvious?

"But not your secrets, apparently," Sherlock remarked, his face carefully devoid of any emotion.

"I honestly don't think there are any secrets you didn't deduce out of me in the first week of cohabitation, and that's overestimating the time," the doctor bit back, grinning. What was this about?

"Clearly I have missed something, instead. I read Alex's mail, John," his flatmate announced darkly, "and frankly I wonder what sort of people you consider friends. He seemed… _pleased_ about it." He shuddered. "You knew the worst of my past from the start, John. True, not exactly by my choice, what with Lestrade and his stupid drug bust. But we are friends, I thought, and you should know I would never judge you – it would be exceedingly hypocritical of me to shame anyone for their past – and I just don't know why you would hide that from _me_." Shameful as it was, it was obvious that Sherlock had missed that particular detail. He tried very hard _not_ to think about John and sex. Down that avenue lay a wealth of forbidden thoughts.

Finally, the metaphorical light bulb went on in John's brain, blindingly bright. "This is about Alex writing I was the best hooker the uni has ever seen, isn't it?" he inquired evenly.

Black curls nodded.

John put on his best enticing smile, the one which made all his partners weak in the knees, and sauntered towards the lanky idiot…only to suddenly tackle him to the floor. "If you'd come along to the pub with Greg and me even once, you'd know hooker is a role in a rugby team, too," he whispered in his friend's ear in between giggles. "I was the fucking best one the university's team had ever seen… and I can boast about that."

Once the sleuth got his breath back, after it whooshed out of him, he gasped that, "Oh," he sometimes used at the most satisfying crime scenes when he'd figured it all out. The one John had always found frankly obscene. He quickly righted himself, letting the other man go. He was used to hiding his automatic reaction to Sherlock's moaning, but full-body contact would make that impossible to miss.

"I might not have money to splurge on bespoke suits, but I've never been that desperate as to need to resort to that," the doctor huffed, covering arousal with irritation – not a new technique at all for him. "Honestly, it was a great training for our current career."

John might not be a genius, but sometimes he could observe too – especially when the world's only consulting detective was involved. The sleuth took a moment to get up himself…and apparently he didn't find the conversation worth following, and had forgotten his earlier craving for biscuits to both, because he faced the sitting room. Suddenly, John had a pretty good idea of what the man could be hiding. "You thought I was a hooker…as in, an escort. And you wanted a practical demonstration," he remarked nonchalantly.

The detective's back went suddenly rigid. He didn't utter any excuse, though. No, 'it was for an experiment', or, "I was just taking the piss." Undoubtedly, the genius could have come up with twenty-seven plausible justifications, if he wanted to. Instead, he just sighed, "You don't have to repeat it again," his shoulders drooping.

"What?" his blogger inquired, honestly puzzled.

"I'm not gay," Sherlock groaned, taking a step away from him.

"Well, no, of course I'm not. I happen to be bi, actually. And if you finally feel like cheating on the Work…" John let the sentence hang in the air between them.

His flatmate turned suddenly, eyes wild, and…oh hello, Sherlock's cock. Yep, definitely interested. "Bi?" he growled.

"Yes, but if I can't have the one man I am actually in love with, I'll keep distracting myself with girls. Any other man simply wouldn't do," the doctor declared boldly. There was no way that he'd misunderstood the signals. If there was something he was an expert in, it was the fine art of seduction – and noticing signals of interest was part and parcel of that.

His friend – soon to be something more – literally gaped, like a surprisingly attractive fish. "You… love… me?" he echoed, despite his hatred of repetition. His breathy voice sounded positively baffled.

"Of course I do, Sherlock. I've always loved you, you know. I'm not asking you to reciprocate my feelings, I know how you feel about that. But if you're finally interested in adding a more physical side to our relationship, I would be ecstatic to play whatever role you want from me. I could give you so much pleasure, any time you wanted, starting from _right now_ … unless you're worried about the tea getting cold," John teased, with a tiny smirk.

Judging from the way the raven-haired man threw himself at him, kissing his mouth with ardent passion, if slightly uncoordinatedly, tea and biscuits no longer ranked as Sherlock's number one craving. The delighted blogger kissed back just as fervently, drawing deep, drawn moans right from his beloved's mouth.

When they were forced to part for air, the sleuth observed, smiling dazedly, "Just like you to miss the most obvious things of all. 'How you feel about it'? Oh, John. I've loved you too since day one. Adored, really. If you aren't lying, I want it all – all the trappings of sentiment. _And_ exclusivity. Mine, John."

"Yours, always, love," the blond man agreed, with an ear-splitting grin. "Forever."

"Since the finer details are solved, is your offer still on the table?" Sherlock queried, taking the other by the arm and tugging him towards his bedroom.

"Definitely, love," John promised, following all too eagerly, " _so much_ pleasure."


End file.
